


The Blue Moon

by wily_one24



Series: Phases of the Moon [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/F, Masturbation, PWP, Stripper Emma, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Voyeurism, i am not kidding there is no plot, okay maybe a teensy little bit of plot, smut smutty smutterson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wily_one24/pseuds/wily_one24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blue Moon was located some ways outside of town, but still within the city limits. Definitely within the boundary that protected the place from outsiders. Well, most outsiders that weren’t annoying blonde women with atrocious tastes in leather jackets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline:** Set very early S1.  
>  **Setting:** Storybrooke, AU, completely AU.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Yeah, they're not mine. If Adam and Eddie saw what I was doing with their precious dolls, I would be so far past sued they don't have a name for it yet.  
>  **Warnings:** None. Really. Unless you need to be warned that strippers take their clothes off.  
>  **A/N:** If anyone's wildly interested to know what song Emma is dancing to in her second set, it is "Cream" by Prince. Go youtube it and watch Miss Calendar get nasty with the artist formerly known as...

***

Regina Mills likes control. 

She controls her life, her daily routines, the price of gas, and inflation. Basically, she controls this town and she controls the people in this town. The one thing she cannot control, however, is Emma Swan. She cannot control if the woman stays or goes, no matter how much she has tried to push her away. 

A city ordinance that had never been used before but appeared in a rather timely manner should have prevented Emma from securing a place to stay. But damned if Mary Margaret Blanchard, the woman’s name hiccups bitterly in her brain, hadn’t relented with her bleeding heart. 

As if that would be enough to stop Regina. The minute she learned a job opening had been made available to Emma at the Sheriff’s station, there had arisen five more city ordinances that prevented her being gainfully employed by the county. 

Granny had received the message loud and clear when it had come to room and board, so no work was available at the diner, either. That left little to no work opportunity in Storybrooke and all Regina had to do was sit back and wait for the dust trail of the obnoxiously yellow car as it disappeared down the road to the town exit. 

But damned if Emma Swan hadn’t found somewhere to work after all, allowing her to stay and leech more time with Henry away from Regina. 

The Blue Moon was located some ways outside of town, but still within the city limits. Definitely within the boundary that protected the place from outsiders. Well, most outsiders that weren’t annoying blonde women with atrocious tastes in leather jackets. 

If the woman must stay, and it definitely looks like she must if the fact that she can be seen all over town at all hours of the day shoving bear claws and grilled sandwiches down her throat as she encourages any and all forms of rebellion in Regina’s son is any indication, Regina is at least satisfied that she hasn’t made it easy. And tickled in a perverse way that she has left no choice but to make Emma _work_ for the privilege, to debase herself for the right to be near Henry. 

She remembers when the curse was first enacted and she would make time to visit Snow White and her meagre little persona Mary Margaret, the snivelling wimp that never fought back, just to mess with her, to bring out that wide eyed vulnerable, hurt look in her eyes. 

It’s the small things that make it worthwhile, it really is. 

Which is exactly why Regina needs to go visit The Blue Moon, to make Emma squirm, make her fully appreciate the position she’s been put in thanks to her. She wants, she _needs_ Emma to realise who has the power in this town. 

Three times in the past twenty-eight years Regina has visited The Blue Moon. Three times she has made it through a few songs with their banal acts, scantily clad women writhing on the stage, that had her yawning and itching to leave as soon as possible. 

She has no reason to believe this time will be any different. 

Walking into the dimly, but not uncomfortably lit bar she is immediately overwhelmed by the loud, pulsing music that seems to thrum with her heartbeat. Par for the course and she makes her way over to the bar to order a drink, something tart and citrusy, the glass encrusted with a ring of salt, coming with a little stirrer she can toy with to keep herself busy. 

Nobody blinks at her, Mayor or not, and either they just don’t care one way or another or they know she has the power to bring this place down if she feels like it. 

There’s a table half way across the room in a cubicle against the wall. Not anywhere close to the stage, but not all the way in the far recesses of the back, where several tables are swarming with eagerly drunken patrons. A reasonable distance to retain her anonymity when she chooses and to give a well-placed arch of the eyebrow or smirk when Ms Swan can easily see and appreciate it. 

Settling herself somewhat stiffly into the booth, making sure as little of her clothes actually touch the seat as humanly possible, Regina finally lifts her eyes to the stage. She doesn’t know the woman currently gyrating against the pole and doesn’t particularly want to. She’s pale and skinny and unenthused.

So Regina stirs her drink and sips it slowly. Waiting. 

Eventually the announcer calls out for everyone’s ‘favourite Swan’ and Regina figures in a town such as Storybrooke where everybody knows everybody else, there’s probably very little need for stage names. She notices the other patrons sit up a bit straighter. 

Well, novelty will attract the masses. Emma is, after all, the first fresh meat this place has had in nearly three decades. 

Leaning back, she keeps herself in the shadows as the spotlight streams across the room and her eyes settle on the figure emerging from the curtains behind the stage. Of course. She should have anticipated the cheap, gaudy costume, the too small checked school girl skirt and obscenely small shirt stretched across a straining chest paired with pigtails. It’s a cliché that’s been done too many times to mean anything at all. 

But it works, if not for the fact that Emma Swan herself seems to dislike it, refusing to gimmick the routine into some cutesy, vaguely disturbing paedophilic tease from a grown woman. Her main stance, obvious in the glare of a hard fuck you stare her eyes give off to the entire room as she launches into a dance, is to challenge anyone to call her on it, to make a comment on this hideous costume. 

Well then.

Regina has found Emma’s weakness. 

That said, she is unprepared for the sudden dryness in her mouth, barely aware it is hanging open as she finally takes in not the minute details, but the picture as a whole. Tightly toned sleek abs glisten under the light topped off with a blinking belly button like a cherry on a sundae. A bare, vulnerable pink skin gleams from the nape of Emma’s neck as she turns around, striking in the frame given by the pigtails on either side. 

And legs. 

Emma is legs, miles and miles of strong looking thighs that twist, muscles bunching and releasing and Regina’s mind does some serious gymnastics to try to escape the image of those thighs doing something else altogether. Some _one_ else. 

And Emma. Oh. Emma knows how to move. 

On stage she is far from the awkwardly bumbling rube she seems in face to face confrontations. She is a graceful, lithe, tempting creature who knows exactly what she’s doing as she undulates, teases the edges of her shirt for a few seconds before grinning as she backs away. 

Several paper notes make it up on stage, hands reaching up to stuff them into the cheap hems of her costume, and Emma gives a knowing wink before the shirt flies off. 

Regina’s tongue scrapes across dry lips and she absently brings her glass to her lips, lifting it up before she realises it’s already empty. She does not remember drinking it. But her eyes do not leave the stage as she tries to sink further back into the seat. 

Bulbous, hypnotic mounds threaten to fall out of a tiny, aerodynamically impossible bra and Regina finds herself leaning forward the smallest amount trying to will it into happening. Her eyes glued to one shiny red fingernail tracing a line down her chest. Regina thinks she sees freckles and is angry at herself for wanting to know for sure. 

“Hey Sugar.” Another figure slides into her line of vision, crass and barely clothed, a sly grin on her face. “You want another drink?”

“Uh.” Regina blinks her way back to reality, filling with sudden horror. This has suddenly gone all horrifically wrong. “No. No thank you. I’m… going.”

She has not humiliated Emma Swan, she has not even perturbed her. But Regina needs to get out of the building and she needs to get out quickly. Before the sudden rise in temperature makes her hyperventilate even more than her shallow breath is currently trying to do. 

It takes several agonising moments to slink towards the doorway, keeping herself against the wall so as not to draw any attention to herself in the middle of this performance that has entranced the majority of patrons. Of course, as she’s turning from the stage, the second before she reaches the doorway and freedom, she sees what might be Emma Swan faltering in her movements, eyes wide and looking at her. 

But Regina doesn’t stop. 

She needs to get out. 

***

Regina absolutely does not obsess. 

The thought is ridiculous. Absurd. But the fact that she’s twisted herself behind the drapes of her office window so as not to be seen from the street below as she watches a certain blonde woman walk down the street certainly begs to differ. 

Emma walks casually, disinterested in any person that may or may not talk to her as she focuses solely on the boy next to her. They’re chatting animatedly and Regina ignores the stab of jealousy that sparks up. Just as she ignores the growing swelling warmth low down in her belly. 

The thing she does acknowledge, however, is the spark of vicious glee that arises when Regina notices the woman clothed in a long sleeved, high neck sweater. A far cry from her usual thin tank top covered only by a jacket. She’ll take it as a victory, a sign that she’s made Emma uncomfortable in her own skin. 

Anything, anything at all to distract Regina from the fact she cannot think about anything else. 

No. 

Two nights ago was an anomaly. Regina Mills does not lust after people such as Emma Swan. She’d had a drink, she’d been in an atmosphere designed to amp up the sexual pheromones of all customers who walked in the door to exploit them. Of course she had found herself charged like a battery. 

It doesn’t explain why Regina had gone straight home and called Graham immediately.

Doesn’t explain why she’d had to kick him out an hour later, unsated and edgy, feeling wrong with the hands and mouth that had tried their usual tricks. 

But Regina doesn’t explain anything, so this is no surprise. 

No, Regina is not obsessed. And she is certainly not affected by Emma Swan in any way. 

So there should be no problem going back to the Blue Moon tonight. None at all. The reason she’s so edgy is the fact that she had not accomplished her goal. The only way to solve that, then, is to actually finish what she’d started. 

Tonight, tonight she will go back and watch Emma’s routine calmly and then she will make herself known and tear her down. 

That’s the plan. 

***

She wonders what kind of demeaning and crass costume Emma will be wearing tonight. 

A nurse this time, perhaps a secretary or bookish librarian with absurdly round glasses. A French Maid’s outfit certainly wouldn’t look out of place here. Here, in this building with the low lighting and heart pulsing music, the scent of desperation wafting from the patrons drooling over their plastic table tops and the even stronger scent of hopelessness coming from the staff. 

But as she gets her drink, making her way back to the same space she had the other night, she refuses to admit that her brain would be absolutely happy with any costume at all as long as it’s as revealing as the last one. 

Regina doesn’t have to wait long. 

Careful planning and a telephone call to determine dancer schedules earlier had saved a lot of guesswork, she’s really not interested in any other show. The announcer calls for Emma and someone called Adeline. 

Of course, Regina is not prepared for the electric slide of heavy, slick, lyrical moaning that’s more than just a little bit musical and definitely a great deal suggestive. She knows this, she’s heard it before, and the underlying beat makes her blood run that much faster. 

Far from the public persona she exudes, Regina Mills is not unaware of popular trends in music and movies and television. She indulges in her own fair share of commercial consumption. Does so now and has done so for the three decades she’s been in this town. 

The second the curtain at the far end of the stage flutters open and discharges three figures, her brain catches up and flicks the name of the song at her, as well as the incredibly evocative video that goes with it. The heavy, carnal tocking adds to the feeling of _something_ happening and her eyes are drawn, inexorably, to the blonde. 

There are two women and one man. He’s dressed head to toe in black including his top hat and the way his head is angled down to the stage as he walks between them, their arms hooked into his elbows, before he lets them go and backs away without looking up tells Regina he’s supposed to remain anonymous and unnoticed. 

But Emma and her friend, that Regina does not know and immediately dislikes, are dressed identically except for the colour. Emma in white, Adeline in black. There is not much to work with, Regina does not have to worry at all about revealing clothes, ridiculously high white heels, a white thong, an impractically small white bra and the drapings of white cloth that suggest a small bolero jacket, had there been any more material. 

And skin. 

Lots and lots of glistening pale skin, legs and belly and arms and chest as Emma stands at the front of the stage, her counterpart at a ten feet equidistant interval. Regina has an absurdly long moment of wondering if Emma is going to compete with the woman for attention, if they might possibly take turns, and how that could possibly be beneficial for either the dancers or the establishment. 

Before the song launches into full gear and Regina’s mouth drops open and her hands fall forgotten to the table top. 

_This is it_.

It’s a double act. And that woman has her hands on Emma. Fingers trailing a teasing path up her arm and along the back of her neck before there’s a switch in position and Emma ducks her head. Far from avoiding the touch, it is a choreographed move into it, a cat stretch into the caress before Emma spins and comes to stand at her partner’s back. 

Her hands come around slender shoulders and play a quick, teasing game of peek a boo with the audience in front of a skimpy bra stretched to capacity. Instead of closing in, Emma’s hands then spread out, taking the suggested jacket with them. 

And that is all it takes. 

Shouts come, whistles, a thundering of fists on tables, and notes, so many hands waving paper notes towards the stage, money given without thought. 

Adeline ducks into a spin, turning to face Emma and rises pressed against her. Her back is to the audience, but everyone and especially Regina is free to imagine their bodies sliding, the skin against skin, face whispering against Emma’s abdomen and up between her breasts. And then Emma’s jacket is pushed off her shoulders. 

And Regina has only one clear thought: Get. Out. Of. The. Way.

She doesn’t have to wait long as both women begin moving, into and out from each other, sliding hands over skin, hooking legs over hips, gyrating in a blur of flesh toned movement. Regina feels a sharp sting in her bottom lip half a second before she realises that she’s biting it. Biting it hard. 

Then Emma’s bra disappears and Regina licks the roof of her mouth in sheer desperation trying to find some moisture somewhere, because it’s definitely not in her mouth. Her fingers clench on the edge of the table, nails scraping against the formica top. 

This time when the waitress sidles up to her table and offers her another drink, Regina doesn’t even blink before she unfolds a note and lays it flat on the tray. 

“Yes.” It comes out too fast and too clipped, so close to being rude. “Bring me two.”

She’s going to need them. 

She is too far past denying what is a deep and desperate hunger for the woman currently gyrating, sliding long fingers over smooth curves, pushing the tender generous flesh of her breasts together and then releasing, giving the breasts a bounce. 

Emma is pushed down. She falls easily and gracefully to her belly, legs sliding flat underneath her and hands holding her up in a mock push up. The movements of Emma’s hips, up and down, are echoed in her dance partner’s as the woman’s feet straddle her body. 

_Get on top_. 

It is then, as the drinks slide magically on the table in front of her as if no time has gone by, as Regina swallows one nearly whole and then forces herself to look at the other woman, at Adeline on the stage, to reset and recalibrate her brain, that she sees it. A split second pause, too quick for anyone to notice, but it’s there, where Emma’s eyes shadow and her face freezes as she makes her way back up to her feet. 

Regina has been seen. 

A smile curves her lips, ready to taunt, freezing there almost instantly the second Emma leans back into Adeline, her body on display, covered only by the tiniest of lacy panties, torso stretched out like a platter to serve, her shoulders resting in against the woman behind her, left arm reaching back to grab Adeline by the back of the neck, that Emma meets her eyes. 

It’s a challenge, a dare, the demand of a reaction as Emma brings two fingers up to her mouth and licks obscenely, before making a show of bringing that hand in a wide arc down and planting the fingers between her legs as she mouths the words along with the song. 

_Right there_

Regina’s breath is lost in the sudden outcry of the crowd, a raucous cheer and several lewd suggestions, money is tossed on stage and the song ends, the dancers slow their movements down to a general slither as they leave the stage and the lights even out, less a spotlight and more of an ambiance to await the next set. 

She blinks. Takes a swallow of hot burning alcohol. 

And blinks again. 

This is going nowhere good. She has to leave and never come back. But she cannot move. 

“What the hell, Regina?”

She has not left quickly enough and Regina miraculously stops herself stuttering as she looks up to see Emma standing in front of her table, a sparkly red midriff top twist tied between her breasts and a flouncy skirt smaller than a belt. At any other time it would be a completely inappropriate outfit, but here, after what Regina has just witnessed, it is too much and too many layers and she has a brief moment of wanting to reach out and just take the clothes right off. 

“Good evening to you, too, Ms Swan.”

“Did you come here to mock me or what?” It’s a hiss, an accusation, and no less ridiculous because it’s true. “This is where I work, damn you. What the hell do you want?”

Regina plans to say exactly that, she is definitely here to put Emma Swan in her place, she is here to prove exactly who has the power and who will always have the power and nothing Emma can say or do will change the fact that the answer will always be Regina Mills. 

So she stands up, slowly and carefully, and places herself right in Emma’s face. 

“I want a dance.”

No. 

No, wait, that’s _not_ what she was going to say at all. 

Her surprise is only outdone by Emma’s. She watches the bright red heavily painted lips fall open and sparkly powdered eyes blink. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” Emma demands, jaw setting in a stubborn line. “Just tell me what you want?”

Regina licks her lips. Now that the image is in her brain, now that she has said the words, there is no point going back. Her hands find her wallet easily, unfurl a crisp, clear, unwrinkled bill larger than any of the tens and twenties previously shoved in Emma’s thong tonight. She does not break eye contact once as she reaches forward, pulling the hem of the gaudy red skirt away from the tender flesh of Emma’s belly and tucks the money inside it, knuckles grazing hot skin as she does. 

“I want a dance.” It comes out like a growl, an order as she tugs harder on the material and causes Emma to skip forward a little closer, only inches away. “And I always get what I want.”

Emma’s eyes dilate. 

It must be some trick of the light, some fake act taught to all the girls, another way to garner more money. Surely. There is no way Emma is as affected as Regina herself, but the way the woman’s voice shakes when she nods and turns around is not missed. 

“Fine then. Follow me.”

Follow she does. Regina’s eyes are drawn to the track of spine down the bare line of Emma’s back, it’s a path that runs from the underside of the shirt to the hem of her skirt, dipping down into the rise of what Regina has seen to be taut buttocks. It shifts with each step the woman takes, twists, bunches and releases and Regina swallows again, awash with the desire to run her fingers over the teasing skin in front of her. 

Regina does not do things slowly or carefully. Once she has decided on an action, she gives it her all. And she has definitely decided that she wants Emma, she wants to see her, all of her, and there is no point playing any more games or hiding that fact. 

She does not know what to expect, has never been in one of these rooms before, but it’s not as bleak as she imagined. Red is definitely a theme, curtains and walls and a slender but comfortable looking chair set up in one end facing a small pole, a cushioned bench and many, many mirrors. 

“First rule: No touching.” Emma doesn’t waste time as she closes the door with a solid click. Her voice is even and almost bored, Regina imagines this is a speech she gives a lot. “Secondly, I don’t care who you’ve seen before and what they did for whatever you paid, but I don’t do extras, got that?”

Regina nods, but Emma’s blank and expectant face suggests that’s not enough. 

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

She doesn’t even know what the extras might _be_ , let alone how to ask for them. Though now she is wondering and it makes her gawp somewhat stupidly until Emma gestures towards the chair before going to put on some music. 

There are several different Emmas shimmering across the mirrors, different angles, variations on a theme, and she watches an arm reach out in one frame, an expanse of thigh in the next, flashes of red in another, as she sits down, breathless and waiting. This close up, she can see the hint of sparkling glitter across the pale flashes of skin. 

When Emma turns, there is something hard in her eyes and her hands linger on her hips, a stance betraying her discomfort. 

“So, we’re really going to do this, huh?”

She is well past the point of trying to pretend she’s only here to put Ms Swan down, but it doesn’t mean she can’t accomplish her goals another way. Regina grins, feral and spiteful as she crosses her legs and places a hand on each arm of the chair, one by one, fingers clacking against it. 

“Yes, dear, I do believe we are.”

With a slow lick of her teeth and a raise of her eyebrow, Regina has set the challenge. 

The change from suspicious and defensive is immediate and obvious as Emma’s body seems to deflate and morph from angles and lines to one sensuous serpentine body full of curves. 

This, this is exactly what Regina is paying for, and Emma does not disappoint. Hands slide up into blonde hair as hips begin to swivel and Regina is biting her tongue before Emma’s mouth even parts. When it does, white teeth rest in plump lips and it makes Regina stifle a groan. 

For half a song, Emma twists and turns around the pole, teasing with just a few come hither movements of hips, the slide of fingers over and between her breasts and down to her thighs, closing her eyes to suggest she’s imagining something definitely not pure, making Regina do the same thing. 

Then Emma’s entire body shifts with sudden purpose, one foot in front of the other, and Regina realises exactly what’s happening seconds before it does. She barely has enough time to prepare, planting both her feet on the ground before Emma lifts one knee onto the side of the chair, pushing slightly into the side of her right thigh. 

Green eyes stare right into hers as a hand is placed under each of her arms on the rest, claiming the space between them, pushing Regina back and allowing Emma to climb right up and settle herself across Regina’s lap. 

Oxygen seems to have left her behind somewhere, running right out of the room as Regina reminds herself to breathe. They are close enough now that Regina can see every pore, confirm every freckle, practically smell the salt and perfume. 

When Emma undulates forward and back, Regina takes a quick look all the way down, watching intently as long, lean, spread thighs disappear into the tight little skirt above, the way they flex, the way they imitate exactly some other movement. 

“Go on.” Emma urges in a thick voice, low and sultry close to her ear as two very firm breasts are pushed towards her face. “You get to take it off.”

Regina’s eyes flick upwards, a silent question as she reads the face inches from her own, before dropping down to the flimsily tied shirt in front of her. Her dry, dry mouth suddenly becomes awash with saliva, even more when hands cover hers, preventing her from reaching out. 

Leaning forward, Regina looks up again, meets eyes whose green is fading rapidly away from lust blown irises, and takes the closest tie between her teeth, pulling it back. Which is exactly the moment she realises that there is no bra underneath as the shirt falls to either side.

Emma is a professional dancer, true, but there is no faking the rock hard nipples that jut out for attention as she shucks the remnants of the shirt to the side, no artifice in the short, shallow breaths Regina can see, or the slightly dazed expression on the woman’s face. 

She’s disappointed when Emma moves back and steps off the chair, but recovers when Emma turns around, reaching behind her to lower the ridiculously small zipper of her skirt. She is definitely more than recovered when Emma bends all the way over to lower the skirt to the floor. 

One tiny purple thong with gold trim is stretched between Emma’s legs, covering not much at all, but enough to make Regina’s fingers flex on the edge of the chair arms. She could, she is almost tempted to, reach out and just snap that material in two. 

But then Emma uncurls her spine, standing up again and looking over her shoulder to send a knowing smirk her way. Regina grits her teeth and sucks air through her nostrils as Emma steps backwards, sitting on her legs and sliding all the way back. 

The moan comes out without her consent, a low rumble of pleasure as the woman on top of her begins to grind. 

Emma arches her back, hips thrusting back and forth and Regina cannot stop her hands any more as she lets go of the chair and grips the sides of Emma’s hips, grips them hard, a further push and pull, deeper and harder in time with her own hips, slapping together a few brief, glorious times. 

“No.” Emma gasps it, voice breathless and heady as she reaches down and grabs Regina’s hands, bringing them back up to the chair arms. “No touching.”

It’s the rule, the first rule, Regina agreed to it, but the low moan of disappointment could have come from either of them at this point. She waits a moment, a count of three in her head, until she realizes that Emma is not standing up, is not calling for security, is continuing the dance. 

Regina leans forward, places her mouth right next to a damp, sweat streaked neck. 

“Oh, but I want to touch you, dear.” A small, barely there whine sounds out of a clenched throat. “I want to put my hands on you and hold you still as I fuck you hard.”

“Oh my god.” Emma moans the words, uncontrolled now, as her head falls back against Regina’s shoulder. “Reginaaa.”

She cannot tell if it’s a warning or a plea, but Emma hasn’t stopped the grinding, the movement of her body, the once lithe choreograph turned rushed and sloppy, breasts heaving in front of them both. She means it, she means it more than she has meant anything she can remember right this second. 

Emma’s breath is coming in short, jagged pants now and it makes Regina clench her thighs as hard as she can. 

Regina wants to hold her, wants to place her hands on Emma’s skin, grab her hips so hard she leaves ten little finger shaped bruises as she makes Emma ride her strap on so hard she couldn’t dance for a week. 

“Jesus Christ.” Emma gasps. “Yesssss.”

And Regina realises she said that last part out loud. 

There is scrambling, hands and limbs and a shock of golden hair until Regina sees Emma’s face, Emma turning towards her and locking her knees as close around Regina’s hips as possible, eliminating all space between them. Emma’s hands are on the back of the chair on either side and her forehead rests to the right of Regina. 

She can feel hot breath heavy on the side of her neck, feel Emma’s chest pressing against her own and, more than anything, feels Emma’s pelvis hitting hers over and over again. 

“Just like that.” Her voice is scratched out, thick and heavy, she barely recognises it as herself. “Can you feel it, Emma?”

“Yessss.” An admission, a gasp that is almost a moan to the side of her neck. “Please…”

With a sharp intake of breath, Emma’s body goes still and taut, then she deflates against Regina’s chest. At the sound of deep gasping, Regina blinks, wondering if what she thinks just happened actually happened. 

“Emma.” It’s a plea, she’s far too gone not to. “Let me touch you, please?”

And Emma inhales, placing her hands back on the arms of the chair as she straightens. She does not meet Regina’s eyes. 

“No touching.”

Regina holds her breath, unable to move as Emma moves back and stands up, gingerly picking her clothes from the floor and redressing. It does not take long, the skimpy red clothes back in place as Emma comes back to lean over the chair, her mouth against Regina’s ear once more. 

“Guess that means you’ll just have to touch yourself.”

***  
to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She needn’t sound so surprised, but Emma has no time for their usual one up-man-ship of words. Her fingers squeeze and release, a pumping, pulling, rougher than she is with others, but closer to how she is with herself. She wants to say _kiss me_ , she wants to change her mind and say _touch me_ , imagines those fingers and those lips on her skin, on her thighs, getting sticky between her legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** warnings, ratings, etc, in ch1.  
>  **A/N 2:** Gah. Plot. Plot entered my smut. *gasp*  
>  **A/N3** See how it says 2/2? Yeah, it's  finished. 
> 
> **Edit to add:** Ha, I almost forgot!! To get yourself in the mood for Emma's quintessential song, check out Paula Cole's "Feelin' Love".

***

Emma blinks as she enters the bar. 

It’s a physical thing, a tangible, palpable thing; that distinct separation between cool, crisp night air and the fuzzy, haze of The Blue Moon. Outside there is a definite chill rising, enough to make her feel it on every inhalation, her skin tingling as she shucks the leather jacket off her shoulders before she walks through the door. 

That door. 

Past that door, she is a different person and that person does not wear heavy jackets or long turtlenecks and full length jeans. 

“Hey Joe.” She grins sheepishly and bats her eyelashes, more than aware of each and every minute that had ticked over on her phone screen. “Sorry, day got away from me, didn’t realise what time it was. I’ll be ready in ten.”

She’s not rushing, though, and he’s not glaring. Not yet. Her bag falls off her shoulder and slumps casually to the floor next to the small outcropping of bar surface on this side of the wall. It runs around, through the doorway and into the bar proper, through which she can already hear the night’s din. Voices and music and heavy, throbbing lust.  
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

He winks, already putting her on edge. He’s a gentle giant, a big bear of a man that looks much worse than he is. As a matter of fact, he’s more than fair as a boss and a manager and the girls all respect him. It’s not like him to do more than give a warning glance if they’re late, but it’s definitely not like him to wink and actively encourage tardiness. 

“But…” A quick gesture over her shoulder towards the dressing area to the right. “The next set starts in…”

The two shot glasses slam down on the bar with an easy, practiced grace. She watches the clear liquid slosh into both of them without spilling. 

“You’re not up there just yet.”

Emma doesn’t wait to be asked, fingers grabbing the closest glass and slamming it down, biting hard on the flinch of her face. There’s a certain amount of free drinks counted towards the perks of working here; not a great deal because drunk strippers don’t make a lot of good choices, but a little Dutch courage goes a long, long way to making them smile wider and dance freer. 

It’s a functioning business model that Joe stands by. 

And Emma drinks two, only two, always at the beginning of her shift. Just enough to get her up first thing and then the night flows on from there. She’s seen the dangers of counting on more, relying on each shot before each set. 

Her fingers curl around the second glass, but she doesn’t lift it. Instead, she raises her eyebrow and waits. 

“You got a dance booked.” Unlike the girls who work for him, he’s not much of a tease. “Two straight hours.”

A heavy exhalation comes out in one big sigh. 

“Jesus, Joe.” It’s almost a whine, that admonishment. “It’s only ten o’clock. We’ve talked about letting Leroy drink this early. The girls don’t like him that drunk.”

This time the shot does its job and her nerves settle. 

He gives her a pointed look. 

“Firstly.” Shaking a greasy towel at her, he goes back to cleaning glasses. “Leroy’s harmless and you know it.”

She shakes her head and grins. 

“You know what I mean. He wastes all his money on beer and he has no tips for the ladies. We gotta earn our living, too.”

They both chuckle, a little sadly, a little knowingly. 

“Secondly.” This time his look is a little more pointed, a little more serious. “The dance is real. You’re booked and paid for.” 

Her mouth falls open for just a second before her brain catches up. 

Jesus mother fucking Christ on a cracker. It’s been three weeks since she last saw Regina in these walls. As grateful as she is for the distance, thankful that every night she gets up on stage and scans the audience she doesn’t see sharp brown eyes looking straight at her, it hasn’t stopped her looking. 

There’s an unspoken pact between them. Deny. Ignore. Pretend. Nothing has been said in those three weeks and she is fairly sure Regina has been avoiding Emma as much as Emma has been avoiding her. Luckily, any strain noticeable in the way she picks Henry up from school and doesn’t leave her car as she idles it by the curb upon dropping him off has been chalked up to their usual resentment. 

Although, Emma’s brain has been tickling her with the idea that her visiting times with Henry have become a little more lenient. 

But this… Emma knows without a doubt who her client is. 

“Two hours?” She can’t even muster up a whine of disproval. “What the hell am I supposed to do for two hours?”

Her brain can easily come up with enough options, but she steadfastly ignores it. 

Joe shrugs at her with watchful eyes and Emma points a warning finger at him. 

“No. No!” Her jaw sets. “You _did_ explain to her that I don’t do extras, right? And I don’t allow touching?”

The pronoun hasn’t been lost on either of them and the fact that Emma knows already who it is makes his eyes crinkle even further. 

“I don’t!” She insists, heat rising in her cheeks, feeling a little frustrated. She can’t stop the words, even though she knows her insistent, continued denial makes her sound suspicious, but does stop short of stamping her foot. “You know I don’t, right?”

The acknowledgement of her stance is oddly important to her. It’s not a secret that some strippers have their own shaky moral code and probably a majority if not all the other girls here fall somewhere along that spectrum. But Emma doesn’t. 

After another few seconds, he nods and gives a heavy sigh of his own. 

“Yeah, I know it. Do you know how many complaints I get on that fact alone? My official legal standpoint is that it’s frowned upon and not allowed by this establishment. But, do you even know the amount of money we both could make if you did?”

Humour sparkles behind his eyes and she pouts dramatically. 

“Well, I may be a GED ex con stripper with staggering parental abandonment issues walking cliché, but I do have _some_ self-respect!”

Joe shakes his head in defeat. 

“More’s the pity.”

After another second, three breaths in and out, Emma whistles and her shoulders drop. 

“Jesus Fuck, Joe. Two hours, really?”

He shrugs again. 

“Look at it this way: you can practically just dance for a lot of it. It’s like practice. How often do you get paid, and paid very well I might add, to practice your routines?”

“Fine.” She relents and turns towards the change rooms. “I’m gonna go get undressed!”

“Room two!” He shouts after her. “Go get ‘em, tiger!”

***

Despite the easy banter with Joe, Emma’s fingers shake as she tries to apply her eyeliner. 

Two hours is not unheard of in this place, it’s not the longest dance ever booked, but it’s definitely not the shortest either. And with Regina, of all people. She was not prepared for last time and she can announce her rules as much as she wants, point out her strict obedience to them. 

But she’s not entirely sure if that’s true, not with this woman. She can claim innocence all she likes, she can stick to as many rules – personal and company alike – as she wants, it doesn’t change the fact that the last time she was in a private room with Regina Mills for twenty minutes, the woman made her come with the power of her voice. 

And she’s more than just a little nervous what two full hours of the same will bring. 

Especially considering all the tricks her brain has been playing with her, all those nights with her hand in her pants remembering and imagining. Regina Mills, the dark smoky eyes and haughty expression, the voice that can cut glass with its sharpness. Emma knew she was a goner the moment she looked up that first night in town, laying eyes on her in that dress the first time they met. 

It was Regina herself that made them adversaries. 

Now it seems it’s Regina again who has changed the rules once more. 

“Why the extra effort?” The heavy sweet scent of musk envelops her seconds before her shoulder is jostled and a never ending expanse of darkened mocha skin falls over her lap, pushing her chair out from the mirror and bringing her attention back into the room. “Special night, Ems?”

She smiles and runs her hand in a gentle swipe of the long leg over her thighs. 

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Sarcasm, teetering delicately along the line between good natured and just vicious, drips across the room. “She’s got herself a John.”

Emma’s grin is all eye teeth, poison and warning and play as she rolls her eyes. 

“Fuck off, Addy.” She lifts Trixie’s legs from across her lap and deposits her in the chair nearby. “It’s just a dance.”

Yup, she tells herself, just a dance. 

“Don’t listen to her, Swan.” Trixie’s shoulder bump jostles her just enough that she drops the eyeliner back to the dresser. “If it weren’t for those stretch marks, we’d all believe you were a virgin at this point.”

There are no secrets in a stripper’s change room. 

Laughter and a low sounding cat whistle flow through the room as the scent of vanilla enters with an emerald tassel clad brunette. 

“Leave her alone, Addy. You’re just pissed she won’t double with you.”

Emma’s nose is assaulted with yet another heavy cloud of perfume, this time a tangy jasmine and citrus mix. She’s going to get a headache the longer she stays here. A hand slides over the back of her neck, familiar and too close and practiced all at once, coming to rest down between the valley of her breasts. 

“We’re a great team, Emma.” Adeline’s voice seeps into her ear and Emma shrugs her off, poking out her tongue. “You know we drive the guys wild on stage, imagine what we could do in the private rooms.”

But Emma shakes her head. There’s no proof, but she’s more than ninety-five percent sure they have very different ideas of what does and does not happen in the private dance rooms. She is not prepared to find out. 

“Nobody’s mistaking you for a virgin, Addy.” 

Amusement trills out of Trixie’s mouth as she stands up, dropping her thong and reaching for another. 

Not one secret. 

The girls laugh and Adeline gives an exaggerated pose with her hand on her hip. 

“You’re just jealous, the lot of you.”

Emma takes the opportunity of space to begin dusting her body with the powdered glitter. 

“Well, if you excuse me, ladies, I have an appointment.”

***

She likes walking into these things with bravado. 

It’s not like she has a lot else left when she leaves ninety percent of her clothes in the dressing room. But this time is different and her bravado is lying somewhere, crumpled into the folds of her jeans in her locker. 

Emma has danced before; stripping is not a new thing. She has had guys try to touch her ass and cop a feel just about everywhere else, even had some guys succeed before she had time to alert security, greasy fingerprints stretches across her skin that she scrubbed away with the ever present wet wipes.

This is the first time she has ever _wanted_ it, the first time she has ever made the worst of all rookie mistakes: correlating business with pleasure, mixing them, bringing sexuality into what is supposed to be a clinical operation. They dance, they get paid; they substitute themselves for whatever fantasy is in the audiences’ heads at the time. It’s the first rule of stripping: you don’t have to like it, you just have to _look_ like you like it. 

But Regina, oh, Emma likes Regina. 

Likes the way the woman’s eyes travel all over skin, as if she’s about to be eaten whole. Likes the way Regina’s tendons cord in her neck, the strain evident in every tense muscle of her being as she holds herself back, likes knowing that it is Emma herself doing that to her. 

What that woman does to her, what that woman has always done to her with one look from her eyes, a simple quirk of the lips, should be a crime. And now that Emma has absolute confirmation that the opposite is true, the flame that coils in her belly is a thousand times hotter and more dangerous. 

She has every intention of walking into the room and flat out asking Regina what the hell she means by booking her for two hours in a private room, giving off the implication that more is happening than a dance, and telling her that it will never happen again. 

But the second she walks in and sees Regina sitting on that chair, waiting in that all too familiar grey dress, her bare arms already laid across the wood and hands clutching the end of the chair arms, her face a mix of impatience and desire, Emma loses all ability to think whatsoever. 

“Same rules apply.” It rasps out of her throat, sounding a lot less demanding than it usually does in this room with any other customer. “Understand?” 

Regina merely nods, but her eyes are two pin pointed sparkles of want and expectation that sets saliva dripping down Emma’s teeth. 

There’s nothing to do but start the music and Emma feels absurdly overdressed and underdressed at the same time, starkly aware of how much skin is on display. She has a pretty standard costume for the private rooms, small easily removed items that take little effort. 

She’s never been a seven veils type of girl, has absolutely no patience for layers and the tease of it, pulling piece after piece only to reveal more underneath. No, Emma prefers to call a spade a spade and strips for the explicit purpose of taking off the clothes and revealing what they want to see.

Her art is in the movement, the balance of come hither and back the fuck off, the seduction without the promise. And she’s paid well enough to do it; enough to stay here, enough to feed herself, enough to see her kid every day. Sure, she could make more if she did more, that goes without saying, but she honestly doesn’t think she could spend that money. 

As the music begins to thrum in the air, Emma lets it slide into her veins, travel in snake like paths through her limbs and loosen her up. Her hips dip into a curve as she reaches out and takes hold of the pole in front of her, swinging wide into an arc. Then her knees canter up, one at a time, pretty like a dressage horse as she picks her way around the pole, feet twining in and around themselves as she dips her pelvis down into a scoop.

This is easy, if she closes her eyes, this is practice just like Joe says. Well paid practice with an audience. But it’s the very audience that makes this so much more and Emma can’t stop the way her skin tingles, heating up under the imagined gaze of Regina across the room, she can practically feel the path of the woman’s eyes over her body. 

When she does open her eyes, when she does look, the air around them both seems to shrink, sucked away as the focus narrows and the room itself disappears. There is just the two of them and Emma bites her lip as she wraps her left calf around the pole, grips it with the sole of her foot and uses the momentum to pull herself in, body slamming just so against the metal. 

Then she arches her spine backwards and slipping the grip from her sole to her toes, it pulls the skin of her abdomen out in a long stretch as she falls backwards, a pleasant burn, and her hair drops in a curtain underneath her towards the floor. 

One foot on the floor, one wrapped around the pole, Emma slides a hand down the side of her ribs and around over the front of her belly, skin prickling and pimpling in her wake. Her hips rise in a slow, barely there thrust as she breathes in and on the breath out she concertinas herself back upwards. 

Reaching up with her right hand, Emma wraps it around the pole and grips tight enough to spring off the floor. Her legs straighten on either side of the pole and it’s a quick flex of abdominal muscles before she’s spinning in a wide circle. It’s a simple move, but it looks flashy enough to please an audience. 

A quick look ensures that her audience is definitely pleased, not that her own flushed skin and shallow breath says anything different about herself. 

Slow, lazy spins take her down close to the floor where she gets her feet back underneath her and pushes herself up, her chest against the pole and her hips sliding in and up as she stands. The routine goes a lot quicker when it’s only fifteen minutes to dance; a little wiggle, a little bump and grind, some lap work and clothes off for the big finish. But this, this is not fifteen minutes and her usual schedule is off. 

It’s a delicate balance between keeping the dance a tease, the fun type of frustration, and losing the mark by dangling the carrot too long on the string. If she stretches the pole work out too long, the mood will drop fast. The current song finishes and she almost wants to break out in full throated laughter at the coincidence of the song that starts up. Emma’s new game plan jumps into her brain instantly. 

The heavy, throbbing music pulses through her veins and along her blood, making her skin tingle. She shakes her hands out as she straightens her spine and steps away from the pole, looking Regina straight in the eye. Every second is a new thrum of cymbal that acts as a direct link to her pelvis, a thrusting jerk of her hips forward as her hands slide against the skin of her belly – her brain gives her a quick flash of Regina’s knuckles that first dance – and their eyes lock as Emma slides her hands up her ribcage, hips in perpetual rhythmic pumping, fingers coming up over the sides of her breasts and then cupping them a split second before they glide up her neck and into her hair, pulling great hunks of it straight up into the air only to fall back down. 

As she watches, Regina licks her lips, not breaking eye contact as she reaches to the side for her glass and practically inhales whatever is inside it. She watches the muscles of Regina’s throat work, swallowing, and Emma’s mouth goes dry. 

It is eight short steps to the chair and Emma makes it a prowl, a jungle cat stalking her exceedingly willing and dangerously evocative prey, biting the corner of her lower lip. 

Bringing her arms down, she undulates her body rolling forward in a wave, just one little reach away from touching distance. She can hear Regina’s quick, panting breath and see the rapid pulse in her neck. Emma makes sure Regina is looking her straight in the eye for the next lyric. 

_You make me feel like the amazon’s running between my thi-ii-ii-ighs_.

The air is swallowed out of the room by Regina’s sudden gasp. 

Reaching behind, her fingers find the little flap to her skirt easily, a quick tear of Velcro and she slithers her hips out of the material and lets it fall to the floor, leaving her in a tiny thong and her little top. Regina’s fingers curl upwards and stretch out before reclasping the chair arms as the woman’s eyes burn all the way down Emma’s thighs and back up. 

Heels still on, Emma places her left knee up against the side of Regina’s right thigh, pushing against the bulge of muscle and skin to rest on the chair. 

_You make me feel like a candy apple…_ She lifts herself up, bites her lip again, settles her right knee against the flesh of Regina’s left thigh tightly enough to push the hem of her dress up revealing long toned legs. Emma pushes forward, barely an inch between them, and waits for the last word of the sentence – never breaking that electric gaze – before sitting all the way down and arching her back. _... red and horr-neeeee._

“Emma.”

If there’s anything to make her legs squeeze tighter than the heavy, lust laden voice of the song, it is the heavy, lust laden voice of Regina underneath her. The throbbing pulse of the song makes the rhythmic thrusting a given, but now it is impossible not to feel it. 

Impossible not to note how close they both are, Emma with barely any clothes at all and Regina with her dress rucked up her thighs and fingers clenching hard on the wood so as not to clench hard on Emma. 

Hands up in her hair again, dragging fistfuls of it up and letting them fall down in front of her face and back to the side, Emma pushes her chest forward, eyebrows lifting. The left side of Regina’s mouth lifts in a small smirk before the woman leans forward, drawing her lips back.

Teeth snap sharp and pointed over the ties of the small cloth wrapped around her breasts and Regina makes the fall backwards as much of a tease as anything Emma’s ever done, drawing it out slowly so that Emma registers the feel of every molecule of polyester dragging across the sensitive flesh of her breasts. 

Her shoulders shimmy, pushing the material all the way off and it falls to the floor next to them. 

Rock hard nipples spring forward, begging for attention an inch and a half from Regina’s mouth and Emma feels enough of an urge to push that last little difference that she pulls back instead, not much, but enough to shake the cloudy haze that had fallen over her rationality. 

Regina’s eyes have long since stopped meeting hers and her mouth is open, Emma can barely remember a time when it was closed, reddish pink tongue lolling on the edge of her bottom teeth and making Emma want to lean forward and just suck it into her own mouth. 

There’s a movement, a small adjustment, and Emma looks down to see Regina’s arms have lifted from the chair, hovering still and quivering in mid-air. She opens her mouth a second too late and fingers clamp down around the sides of her hips, low down and far back enough for her to feel ten distinct fingertips digging into the meaty flesh of her ass.

Immediately her hands cover Regina’s, her eyes widening as she glares. But for a few, brief seconds, they grind together, against each other, Emma giving into the push and pull of Regina’s will, before she recovers and pries the hands off her skin. 

“No.” It comes out rasping, dangerously low. “You can’t touch me.”

Anybody else, anybody at all, and Emma would have stood up and walked out, already tempted to call security. But not now, not like this, she hasn’t even stopped the movement. Just carefully and firmly puts Regina’s hands back on the chair. They stay there like that as the music dies down and a new song begins. 

“I can’t touch you.” It rasps out of Regina’s throat, soaked in the obvious desire pooling in her eyes. “But can you touch yourself?”

Emma’s breath hitches and her eyes widen. 

They have broken so many rules and so many of her self-imposed boundaries already that her head spins with the force of it, clouded as it already is. As she sits astride this woman, studies the want and need and red flushed skin, Emma inhales. 

Her hands leave Regina’s, an unspoken promise of trust as she leans back, her knees still hooked into the sides of Regina’s hips. 

“Your neck.” It’s a whisper, an almost craven order. “Start there.”

Both hands come up, fingers sliding over her skin and she can feel the tendons pop up against her hands, feel her own bird beat frantic pulse that jumps out at her. But the movement causes a shift in her body, a tingle of awareness that is connected all the way down between her legs. 

“Down.” Comes the hiss, bitten off, eager. “Slowly.”

As if that needs to be said, as if Emma’s not already jittery with the explosion of sensation and awareness, the knowledge of where this is going. She doesn’t waste time pretending not to understand the directions, sliding her palms over the hollows of her collarbones and down to the slope of her breasts, the curve, the familiar weight and bounce of them. 

“Pinch your nipples for me, Emma. “

So close, Regina is so close that Emma can practically feel the woman’s breath scalding her skin. Her fingers shake as she closes the tips around aching peaks. 

“Are you petting them?” The snide husk makes her eyes fly right to Regina’s, meets the challenge head on, as a hungry smirk curves the lips in front of her. “I said pinch them. Make it hurt.”

It’s as if she’s helpless to do anything but obey and Emma grips hard, squeezing until she has to let it all out with an exhalation, a loud gasp that devolves into a very audible moan. The pain shoots like an electric bolt throughout her body and making her thighs tremble. 

“You are beautiful.” Regina whispers it to her chest, face and eyes pointed down. “Intoxicating.”

She needn’t sound so surprised, but Emma has no time for their usual one up-man-ship of words. Her fingers squeeze and release, a pumping, pulling, rougher than she is with others, but closer to how she is with herself. She wants to say _kiss me_ , she wants to change her mind and say _touch me_ , imagines those fingers and those lips on her skin, on her thighs, getting sticky between her legs. 

Wants nothing more than to touch Regina, she bets the woman tastes like confidence and superiority, is ready to wager there’s not one ounce of hesitancy once she gets going. 

“Are you loud, Emma?” She throws her head back to look up at the ceiling, the black speckled glittering ceiling and spotted downlights, unable to face the voice, the eyes, needs the break from all this intensity. “Late at night, all alone in your bed, thinking of me when you touch yourself, do you moan?”

Emma bites her lip, tries to keep it in. 

“Yesss…” But it comes out anyway. “God, yes.”

A shift, a creak, and she feels her body moving, rising and falling with the wave of motion that is Regina lifting her hips and scooting them forward in the chair, sinking further down, enough that she is half lying and Emma is now practically riding her. 

“Show me.” Comes the order, breathless and gasping. “Show me, now.”

There is no point stopping and Emma knows she’s more than ready.

Her left hand stays grasping and kneading at her right breast as her right hand falls, rides the curves of her abdomen and belly, straight down to the tiny thong that is the only thing, the barest piece of cloth, separating this from being entirely illegal. 

The sound that rumbles out of her mouth, beginning in her chest and erupting all the way up her throat, echoes in the low growl of Regina, both combining to make one feral, carnal sound. 

Emma’s fingers are wet, drenched, slick with her own want as electricity seems to jump straight into her clit. She can feel herself, throbbing and swollen with it, hot and ready, and it feels good. Too good to stop as she flicks the tip of her forefinger against herself, that needy, greedy clit. 

A scratching sound makes her look to see Regina’s hands clenching, white knuckled and tense, and blue veins popping in the back of her hands and up her arms, like the corded ropes of tendon in Regina’s neck. She sees Regina open mouthed and staring down, down… They both look down, to that junction, that raised knobbly bump of a hand in her thong that moves faster and faster, her hips pumping as she does. 

“In.” 

Regina demands it like a god given right and Emma doesn’t even think to disobey, rolling her shoulder down so that she can shove two fingers knuckle deep. The left hand on her breast gives up, slamming forward to land on the head rest next to Regina’s ear, fingers curling into the cushioned back for support to hold herself up. 

“Please…” Emma whimpers, unsure exactly what she’s asking for and hoping desperately it’s not given. “Please, oh god…”

If Regina did reach out now, she’s not sure she’d be able to stop it. 

She can’t stop her head moving forward, that automatic need for contact, and she leans against the headrest, panting desperate hot air down the skin of Regina’s neck, feeling her own tingle at the heated electric feel of Regina’s face so close to her own. 

“Come for me, Emma.” Angling her jaw, Regina speaks directly into Emma’s ear. “Come now.”

It washes over her, blanking out her brain, making her muscles spasm and twitch as a drop of sweat rolls down her back. When she does still, her body aching to fall limp into the one underneath her, Emma has to struggle to stay upright, to keep that distance even in the hot, humid atmosphere of both of them gasping for breath.

“I don’t care.” The words come scratched and raw out Regina’s throat. “I don’t care about the rules, what it takes, Emma, please. Let me touch you. I want…”

But it’s enough to snap her out of her haze and Emma shakes her head, curls of hair trembling in a curtain as she pushes up and off Regina’s body. Her legs quiver, thighs feeling like jelly as she tries to stand. 

“No.”

The word, the finality of it slams down like a brick.

It’s quiet in the room as Emma slinks back, looking sideways for the remnants of her costume, small bundles of material lying limply like discarded skins. When she’s dressed, that absurdly miniscule difference the costume makes, feeling the reality of it wash over her like guilt, a dirty little secret, Emma finally meets Regina’s eyes. 

She is still in the same position in the chair, watching her, regaining control of her breath. 

“Don’t come back here, Regina, please.”

Regina’s eyes widen for a second and then close. A slow blink that takes several second to open again. 

“I need more.”

It’s said simply, as if the woman cannot even comprehend the possibility of anyone disagreeing with her. 

Emma’s hand lingers on the door jamb, tacky purple nails gleaming at her like an obscene reminder of where she is, before she looks back. This woman, that she has fantasized about since the night she got to this forsaken town, this wet dream in a dress and heels, Emma knows this woman. 

And so she does the only thing she can, lobs the ball right into Regina’s court, leaving everything completely up to her. 

“Not here. Not for money. Not like this.”

Because out of everything she knows about the woman, one thing rings true. 

Regina Mills likes control. 

***


End file.
